Ruth Axtell Morren - Wild Rose

When they finished, he thanked her and left. She watched him walk back down the path to the road. Shame engulfed her.

What a fool she felt, not even being able to do so simple a task as write down the names of the seeds.

Caleb walked down the dirt road that descended into the village. He’d hiked the three miles into town from the Point, enjoying the droplets of mist on his face the entire way, and now his clothes and hair felt damp.

Gradually the number of white clapboard houses increased until he was in the center of town, which consisted of a post office, a small store, a newly opened hotel, and a few warehouses along the three piers jutting out into the harbor.

Caleb entered Mr. Watson’s store and carefully shut the door behind him. He was glad to be out of the fog. The woodstove radiated heat throughout the store’s interior. A group of men sat around it, their eyes turned to him.

He nodded to them before turning to the storekeeper. “Afternoon.”

“Afternoon, Captain,” Mr. Watson answered.

Caleb ventured in a few feet. One woman looked at him over some bolts of fabric spread out before her. He removed his hat, acknowledging her. With a quick little duck of her head, she turned her attention back to the calico prints.

The men leaning back in their chairs by the potbellied stove continued eyeing him with undisguised interest, their boots propped against the fender of the stove. Although none of the men said a word, their mouths weren’t still. Two moved in rhythm working over plugs of tobacco and the third sucked on the stem of a pipe.

Caleb gave his list to Mr. Watson.

“Good summah we’ve been havin’ up until today,” one man in bib overalls commented.

“Yup,” another answered, his plump fingers interlaced atop his stomach. “I seen summahs the sun didn’t come out atall.”

“Was gettin’ a bit dry for the plantin’, though,” Mr. Watson put in from across the room.

“I seen you got a garden started down at the Point.” One of the three by the stove turned his light blue eyes on Caleb. He stood out from the other two by his neater appearance. His red beard was trimmed and his hair slicked back. He wore a suit and string tie in contrast to the others’ overalls and open collars. “It’s been quite a few yeahs since anybody’s tried to grow anything up theah.”

Caleb nodded, wondering when anybody had been by his place to notice his garden.

“Didn’t evah get your house finished, did ya?” the red-bearded man asked when Caleb didn’t volunteer any more information.

“No.” Caleb moved to examine the fishhooks at one end of the store. “But it’s fine for myself.”

“Ain’t too lonely for ya, after Boston?” one of the men in overalls asked from around his pipe.

Caleb shook his head without offering any comment.

“You could always knock on your neighbah’s door if you’re hankerin’ aftah some company,” the man with plump fingers laced atop his belly suggested. He seemed the boldest of the three, if the angle of his tilted chair was any indication.

The other two chuckled. “Hankerin’ after a bullet in his chest, you mean,” Bib Overalls put in.

“’Less, o’course, she was particularly ornery that mornin’ and aimed lowah,” Red Beard added, punctuating his remark with a well-aimed stream of tobacco juice at the spittoon.

All three men, as well as Mr. Watson, laughed at the implication.

“First he’d have to get past Jake,” Bib Overalls warned.

“Ain’t as if no one around here hasn’t tried to get past ol’ Jake.” Plump Fingers angled a sly look at Red Beard. “Remembah the time Elijah tried to sneak into her shack after dark? Wasn’t long aftah her pa passed on.” The others nodded, chuckling at the story to come. “Came back out in short ordah, a hole shot clean through his straw hat. We ribbed him some about that hat.” Plump Fingers slapped his knee, and the others laughed at the memory.

“I think ol’ Elijah learned his lesson,” Red Beard said with a nod of his head, shifting the tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other.

“I’ll wager not everyone’s learned his lesson.” Plump Fingers lifted his sandy-haired fingers and stared at them, then looked across at Red Beard.

“I ain’t heard o’ no man who’s snuck past ol’ Jake at night, though it ain’t been for lack of wantin’,” Red Beard answered placidly, but with a gleam in his eyes that testified of his own desires in that direction.

“Gotta be careful o’ Ginny. Her ol’ man had a mean streak a mile wide and I think she inherited a good portion of it,” Mr. Watson explained to Caleb.

“She probably needs it, by the sounds of things,” Caleb said quietly, looking at the three men around the stove as he spoke.

All three chairs stopped rocking and hung tilted in midair as the men stared at Caleb. He could hear the murmur of the lady and Mr. Watson behind him die down.

Bib Overalls’ chair was the first to resume its rocking. “I think Genevar’s just waitin’ for someone who’s man enough to tame her,” he said, pointing his pipe first at Red Beard and then at Caleb. “What do you think, Cap’n?”

Red Beard’s smile had something nasty in it. “The cap’n has already lost one good woman. Just think, if he was to get turned down by Salt Fish Ginny, how’d he be able to lift his head up in public?” He slapped his knee and chortled. The other two men laughed more guardedly, awaiting Caleb’s reaction.

“It’s been my experience that the more a man boasts about his conquests, the less they exist in truth,” Caleb commented, leaning his back against the counter.

All the men except the red-bearded one laughed heartily.

When their laughter subsided, Mr. Watson smiled. “We’ve got some fresh eggs. Would you like me to add a dozen to your order?” he asked Caleb.

Caleb turned back toward the shopkeeper. “Half a dozen will do.”

“It’ll cost you more that way. Two bits a dozen, but fifteen cents for half.”

“I’ll take the half,” Caleb repeated.

When he faced the room at large again, he discovered the topic of Miss Patterson was by no means exhausted.

“You mustn’t blame Geneva for the way she’s turned out,” the woman from the other end of the counter piped up. “She used to be black and blue from the beatings her pa give her. It’s no wonder she’s unfriendly.”

Deciding he’d had enough village gossip, Caleb moved away, hoping that would end the subject. Looking at several stacks of denim overalls, he began to finger through them until his order was filled.

“Those are fine quality denim. Just the thing for gardenin’. Is there a particular size you’d like to look at?” Mr. Watson came to stand behind the stacks of trousers.

“Is my order ready?”

He watched the friendly expectancy on the shopkeeper’s face turn to surprise and end in frosty politeness. “Yes, of course. Is there anything else you be needin’ today?”

Caleb shook his head and walked back to the center counter.

“The way ol’ Jeb Patterson kept her out of school, it was disgraceful,” the woman said. “We tried to reason with him, but anytime anybody would come by, he’d wave that shotgun at us from the doorway, and all his hunting dogs would bark something ferocious. There was nothing to do but leave him to his own devices.”

Caleb watched Mr. Watson add the column of numbers on a piece of paper. He didn’t want to hear anything more about Geneva Patterson. The men’s conversation sickened him. He’d been curious about her. He’d realized the other day that she wasn’t as self-assured as she’d first appeared to him. She was also kinder-hearted than her gruff manner suggested. It was evident in her manner toward her dog.